


open hearts & open eyes

by atlantisairlock



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Future Fic, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, Parent-Child Relationship, Polyamory, Siblings, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 12:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlantisairlock/pseuds/atlantisairlock
Summary: Amita needs dates to a slew of family events. Each one of the team takes their turn.





	open hearts & open eyes

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr anon, who asked for: amita takes a different one of o8 to seven different family events as her dates & her mother might literally die.
> 
> wow, okay, so... this went places i did not expect. a lot of it is drawn from my own experience as an asian bi kid raised in _deeply_ asian culture, with parents who absolutely Do Not Get It but _try_. a lot of personal stuff here.
> 
> if i've fucked up any cultural aspects of this fic please let me know & i'll edit as necessary. no offence is ever meant & i want to be respectful. 
> 
> title from 'mind over matter' by pvris.

**_i. wedding prep_ **

They all know something’s up when Amita takes her phone call out into the garden and they start hearing her raise her voice through the back door.

“Must be her mother,” says Debbie, craning her neck to peer past the window in concern. 

“Are they on such bad terms?” Daphne asks curiously, still firmly luxuriating in her ‘nose-around-into-the-lives-of-my-new-criminal-teammates’ phase. Debbie makes an ‘eh’ sound, shrugging vaguely. “They love each other. It’s just… mothers, right?”

“Specifically _my_ mother,” growls Amita, who catches the tail end of the conversation after storming back into the house and slamming the back door behind her. “Why she wants me to help my cousin with her wedding preparations I cannot for the life of me comprehend. Actually, I can, but it’s still pissing me the fuck off.” 

“What’s so bad about helping with wedding prep?” Lou asks. Amita gives her a filthy look, but softens it when she realises Lou’s sincerely confused. “It’s not about the wedding prep. It’s the fact that she doesn’t _really_ need my help. Between her and my aunt they could plan five weddings in the space of two weeks. This is just an excuse to nag me about not having found a husband for a month straight.” 

Constance arches an eyebrow, smirking mischievously at her. “You haven’t told her that you’re in a slightly dysfunctional polyamorous relationship with seven other women?” 

“Even if I had a death wish, I would pick a easier way to go,” Amita shudders. 

Lou lounges back on the couch, cracking her gum. “Can’t you just tell her you’re busy?” 

Amita rolls her eyes. “Then I wouldn’t be getting the ‘marriage’ lecture. I would be getting the ‘bad daughter’ lecture, ‘what are you even doing in New York’ lecture, and ‘you don’t love your poor, suffering, lonely mother’ lecture. And then she would probably fly here just to nag me in person. Ugh.” She drags her fingers through her hair. “God, it wouldn’t be half as bad if I actually had someone to talk to while I’m there.”

It’s Tammy’s turn to be confused. “Won’t your relatives be there?” 

“I mean someone I actually want to talk to,” Amita corrects.

“Well, then, that’s easy,” says Nine Ball. “Just take one of us. Take Rose and say she’s a fashion designer and she can help with the bride’s dress or whatever. Or take Tammy because she’s a planner. Or take Daphne and get her to be the entertainment.” 

“Ooh, I wouldn’t mind,” Rose coos, looking up from her sewing. “I love weddings. I love designing for weddings!” 

“Would you really come?” Amita’s looking far more cheerful now. Rose nods eagerly, curls bouncing. “When do we leave?”

 

 

Amita’s mother stares at Rose for a solid minute when Amita first brings her home, like she can’t even comprehend her existence. In fairness, her outfit is not the most… conventional, to put it nicely.

“How do you do, Mrs Sanyal,” says Rose, the picture of politeness. 

“Hello,” Mounisha Sanyal replies faintly, then turns to her daughter looking like a vein is about to pop. Amita steels herself for the tirade of furious Tamil. “What white devil have you brought into your father’s house?!”

“Amma,” Amita replies pleadingly, looking at Rose, who’s just smiling in benign bewilderment. “She is my _friend._ And she’s a very famous fashion designer. She’s here to _help_ with Chandra’s dress. And any other dresses!” 

“What does she know about a wedding dress,” she hisses, gesturing at Rose’s outfit. She glares at Amita, and Amita glares back. “Just give her a chance.”

“You are mad,” Mounisha says, raising her voice. “Mad! I tell you, Amita, if you ruin your cousin’s wedding - “ 

With a sigh, Amita tunes her out and turns back to Rose. “She’s just really excited for us to be here. Don’t worry.” 

 

 

Rose does end up cooking up an absolute stunner of a wedding dress within a week. She declares to Amita that it’s the third-fastest time she’s ever come up with an outfit - what?! - and everyone goes into ecstasies over it.

Predictably for Amita, it’s not enough to get her mother to warm to Rose, but she does give her an eventual nod of grudging respect. “Very beautiful,” she says. “She has a decent eye.” 

Coming from her it is practically a glowing five-star critique from Vogue. Amita translates as much to Rose, who beams and gives a startled Mounisha a hug. “I am so glad you like it.” 

So, that goes better than Amita would’ve expected. 

She still really, _really_ wants to go back home, though.

 

 

**_ii. wedding_ **

Rose has to fly back early because she’s opening yet another shop and has to be there to oversee operations. Debbie drops in to take her place.

“You really didn’t have to,” she says, and then, because she’ll always be her mother’s daughter even if she has thirty-eight million USD sitting in an offshore account - “how much did you spend?”

“Nothing,” Debbie says breezily, pushing her sunglasses further up her nose. “I borrowed Rusty’s jet.” 

Amita stares at her. “Where and when the hell did Rusty get a jet?”

Debbie deftly sidesteps the question, choosing instead to sling an arm around Amita’s shoulders. “I can’t wait to see your mother again. And Nazma. And whatever her husband’s name is.” 

“That’s only because they like you,” Amita says moodily. Which is true. Amita’s whole family has always loved Debbie, even her brother-in-law, although Debbie’s never been able to remember his name. To be fair, neither can Amita. 

 

 

Her mother is indeed delighted to see Debbie again, sweeping her into a hug. “Deborah! How have you been doing? It has been so long! Look at you, you’re so skinny. You have to put some meat on those bones,” she says disapprovingly, prodding Debbie in the ribs. Amita covers her face. “Amma!”

“It’s fine,” says Debbie laughingly. “It’s good to see you again, Auntie. It’s been a while. I’m looking forward to eating your amazing vadai again.” 

Amita cringes a little as her mother preens and laughs right along. “You give it too much credit. Come, come, where are you staying? Where are your bags? And how are you in New York? Do you meet with Amita much? Has she been cooking for you? No _wonder_ you’re so skinny. Never will she learn to make the vadai properly.” 

“That’s not fair,” Amita protests. “I make pretty good vadai.” 

Mounisha gives her a withering look of complete disbelief, then turns to Debbie, squinting suspiciously. “Is this true, Deborah?” 

“Uh,” says Debbie intelligently, the traitor. “Well, back home, we eat out a lot. Or order in.” 

Amita groans inwardly as her mother’s hand flies to her chest and prepares herself for a half hour of the ‘home cooking’ lecture. 

 

 

A good quarter of the male guests at the wedding attempt to flirt with Debbie, eyeing her with great interest. Debbie shoots all of them dazzling but disinterested smiles and spends the whole night by Amita’s side, keeping her occupied.

Nazma sidles up to her halfway through the festivities when Debbie’s gone to the washroom, smirking at her. “So _Debbie’s_ your date?” 

“Not like that,” Amita hisses to her little sister. At least not outside of the warehouse. Nazma wiggles her eyebrows, obviously not believing her. “Are you sure? Even when you were younger, you were always looking at her like - “ 

Amita stomps on her foot in a desperate attempt to get her to shut up. “Do you want Amma to have my head?!” 

Nazma rolls her eyes in the true attitude of a younger sibling. “Amma’s not going to freak out if you two date. She _likes_ Debbie.” 

“And she’ll stop liking Debbie if she found out we were having sex,” Amita shoots back. “Don’t you have a husband to entertain?” 

“Oh, so you _are_ screwing,” says Nazma, ignoring everything else Amita said. “Do elaborate.”

Amita kicks her under the table. 

 

 

They take the jet home again after everything is over - Amita sends a silent prayer to Rusty - and Debbie grins at her from the on-board bar. “That wasn’t so bad.” 

Amita glares at her. “You’re just saying that because my mother made a whole _bucket_ of vadai _just_ for you.” 

“Don’t exaggerate,” says Debbie, maddeningly cheerful. “Though, were you lying when you said you make pretty good vadai too?”

“Ugh,” says Amita, sinking irritably into her seat.

 

 

**_iii. nephew’s birthday_ **

“It’s my nephew’s first birthday next week,” says Amita. “Debbie, you think Rusty’ll lend me the jet again?” 

“I think he’s using it,” Debbie replies. 

“What is this about a jet?” Daphne asks, looking deeply interested. “I like jets. I’ve never flown in a private jet.”

Everyone stares at her. “You? Daphne Kluger?” 

“I’m Daphne Kluger, not Meryl Streep,” Daphne snaps defensively. “I’ve flown first-class, not in a fucking private jet.” 

“I like the sound of first class,” says Constance thoughtfully. “Hey, Amita, if you book us first-class seats, I’ll fly over with you.” 

Amita blinks, taken by surprise. “Wait, what?”

Constance shrugs. “I’m assuming you don’t really want to have to deal with your family alone again. Which I totally get, by the way. Asian families, am I right?” 

Which is not totally wrong. “Okay,” she agrees. “First-class. It’s not like we don’t have the money for it.” 

 

 

When they arrive at Nazma’s house, right off the flight, Amita’s brother-in-law is the first one to greet them (Vanmeet; she specifically went to memorise it this time). “Amita! It’s so good to see you. And this is…?”

“Sup, I’m Constance,” says Constance, grinning at him. “Nice to meet you.” 

Vanmeet looks slightly confused, but happily lets both of them in anyway. Nazma greets them both with a hug. Mounisha does not, partly because she’s sitting with her grandson on her lap, but mostly because she’s giving Constance a suspicious look, reminiscent of the time she met Rose. “Amita, who is this now?” 

“This is Constance, another friend of mine,” says Amita. This does not placate her mother, not that she expected it to. “And why is she here?”

“She likes children,” Amita replies after a second, which is really as good an answer as she can possibly think of.

 

 

Constance is actually _really_ good with kids. She gets on Mounisha’s good side when Kaustub starts wailing and nobody in the house can appease him. Constance picks him up, rocks him a little, sings softly under her breath and paces around the house until his bawls tone down to whimpers and eventually quiet sniffles. 

“I think he’s just tired and stressed from all the people and the noise,” she says, handing him back to Nazma. “He’s alright. You’re okay, right, little buddy?” 

Mounisha looks on approvingly, nudging Amita in the side. “See, your friend is a natural mother,” she says, in that very familiar insinuating tone of voice.

“You know how bad I am with children,” Amita says beseechingly, trying to curb yet another nag she can just feel coming.

Her mother nods mournfully. “Where did I go wrong? All these years, I got you to help look after your sister, and babysit for your aunts and uncles, and - “

Constance, _blessed_ Constance, walks up in the nick of time and Amita latches on to her instantly. “Hey, Constance, you hungry?”

“Nah, I ate a lot of biryani,” says Constance, then widens her eyes when Amita glares at her. “I mean, yes, totally, lead me to the kitchen.” 

“Well, Constance is hungry. I’ll take her to get more food,” Amita says to her mother, and scarpers. 

 

 

“I see what Debbie meant about your mom’s food,” Constance says on the flight home. “And hey, you gotta admit, your nephew’s real cute. Your sis, too.” 

Amita lifts her eyeshade, staring right at Constance. “No. Don’t even think about it.” 

Constance rolls her eyes. “I’m not gonna fuck your sis. I have enough of that shit back at the warehouse.” 

Amita groans and puts her eyeshade firmly back on.

 

 

**_iv. sister’s birthday_ **

Nazma video-calls her at six in the morning because she is useless at calculating timezones and tells Amita she better come home for her birthday. “And bring presents from New York!” 

They end up having a pretty nice, long chat, after Amita manages to get some coffee in her system and wake up enough to string sentences together. Conversation turns to the new movie she saw in theatres with Vanmeet. “Some Oscar-bait film. Starring that really gorgeous actress. Amazing hair, incredible figure, great boobs. You know the one?”

“Thanks for describing literally every Hollywood star ever. I’m sure I could figure it out,” says Amita dryly. 

Nazma flips her the bird into the webcam. “It’s the really famous one. The one who was in the news over the stolen necklace! Daphne Kluger!” 

Amita takes a moment to process this. “Do you have a celebrity crush on Daphne Kluger?”

“Who doesn’t,” Nazma retorts. “Have you _seen_ her?”

This makes Amita laugh. She can’t help it. “Seen her? Naz, I’m _friends_ with her.” 

Nazma goes silent, her mouth dropping open. Amita takes a gleeful screenshot for blackmail purposes in future. “You’re lying. No way.”

Amita shrugs. “I did some jewellery work for her here in New York.” It’s her cover story - they’ve all been supplied one by Nine Ball in case the tabloids ever do get snaps of any of them with Daphne. Nazma shakes her head insistently. “Bullshit. There’s no way.”

“Okay,” says Amita, and she blames her next sentence on it being eight in the morning on a weekend. “If I bring her as my plus one to your birthday, will you believe me?”

 

 

It isn’t until Daphne comes downstairs for breakfast, yawning and running a hand through her untamed mane of hair, that Amita realises it would probably have been prudent to ask Daphne first. Shit.

“Hey,” she says, feeling suddenly nervous. “Daph, you free next week?”

“Mm?” Daphne reaches across with sleepy eyes and Amita pushes a cup of coffee into her hand. “What’s up?”

“Want to go as my date to my sister’s birthday?” 

Daphne’s eyes shine with interest. “Do we get to take the jet?” 

Amita sighs - of course that’s what Daphne’s concerned about. “I will try to get the jet,” she says. “But if there’s no jet…?”

With a long, thoughtful sip of her coffee, Daphne tilts her head and smiles. “Sure. It’ll be cool to meet your sister and attend a party. I heard from Constance that she’s cute.”

“No,” says Amita flatly. “Constance did not sleep with my sister and neither will you.”

Daphne pouts. “You are no fun.” 

 

 

Rusty does lend them the jet, after Daphne comes in to twirl her hair and smile and convince him. It gives them privacy up until they land, after which Daphne puts on a pretty effective disguise and they take a car right up to Nazma’s door.

When Daphne takes off her sunglasses and hat, Nazma’s jaw drops. She stares at Daphne, then looks at Amita, then looks back at Daphne, then at Amita. “You weren’t lying? You two are friends?”

“Maybe more than,” says Daphne with a wicked grin, before Amita can kick her to keep her quiet.

Nazma immediately loses all sense of hero worship or celebrity admiration in favour of being Amita’s sibling, ready to gossip about her big sister. “Is that so? I thought she and D - “ 

“Nazma! Who is that at the door?” Amita hears her mother’s voice from inside, and she has _never_ been so grateful. Mounisha appears beside her younger daughter moments later, taking in Daphne’s figure. “Amita! Exactly how many white girls do you know?” 

“Amma, I live in _New York!”_

“I am well aware,” Mounisha grumbles, and Amita’s pretty sure she’s going to set a new land-speed record for the number of minutes between landing back home and getting lectured by her mother. Nazma thankfully cuts in. “Amma, this isn’t just any white girl, this is Daphne Kluger! She’s an actress! A Hollywood star!”

Amita, who doesn’t think any so-called young, pretty Hollywood actress would leave an impression on her mother except Priyanka Chopra, perhaps, is unsurprised when her mother just rolls her eyes. “Whoever she is, her clothes are a travesty.”

Daphne thankfully does not understand Tamil, and just beams at both of them. “It’s so nice to meet Amita’s family. You must be her mother, and you’re her sister, the one with the birthday!” 

“That’s me,” Nazma says, shaking Daphne’s hand fervently. “And I just want to say, I love your work. You’re an amazing actress!” 

“She gets that a lot,” Amita says. 

“But I always like hearing it,” Daphne adds, grinning.

“Nazma! Get them inside, the mosquitoes are flying in!” 

Amita and Nazma roll their eyes at the same time, and Daphne laughs, high and bright and genuine.

 

 

Later, when the party is in full swing and Daphne is happily tucking in to some sweets after declaring it a cheat day, Mounisha sits down beside her on the couch, looking at Amita. “She’s really an actress?”

“She’s _right here_ , Amma, you can talk to her.”

“You can translate and practice your mother tongue,” comes the snappy reply, and Amita decides she’d rather play translator than get the ‘your-Tamil-is-appalling’ lecture. She turns to Daphne. “My mom’s asking if you’re really an actress.” 

Daphne stops munching on her murukku and smiles warmly at Mounisha. “I am! And sometimes also a model.” 

Amita dutifully translates. “Hmm,” her mother says. “Does she know Priyanka? Or Deepika.” 

“What - Amma, not all actresses know each other,” Amita says, exasperated. 

“Well, I didn’t ask you, Amita,” she replies prissily. “Do _you_ know Priyanka?”

“I’ve got enough on my plate knowing Daphne,” Amita mutters under her breath.

Mounisha gestures expansively at Daphne’s whole body. “Her clothes worry me,” she declares. “What happened to that curly-haired madwoman who did Chandra’s wedding dress? Get her to help this girl out.” 

There are so many things wrong with this sentence that Amita doesn’t even know where to start. Instead she just turns to Daphne wearily. “She says your dress looks great.” 

“Thanks,” Daphne says happily. “Rose made it.” 

 

 

**_v. housewarming_ **

One of Amita’s cousins, who lives in Washington DC, buys a new house and settles in. She throws a housewarming party and invites literally everyone in the family. 

“We’re all coming down,” Nazma tells her. “It’ll be Kaustub’s first flight! Isn’t that exciting?”

Amita is privately very grateful she won’t be on said flight, but wisely doesn’t say anything. “Do you need me to help you book a hotel?” 

“Vanmeet will do it. I’ll just see you there.” She grins. “Bring another one of your girlfriends.” 

“Oh my - they’re _not_ my - fuck off,” Amita says, but she’s already considering it.

 

 

“I’m up for a trip to DC,” says Nine Ball. “Veronica’s studying there. We could drive up a day early, spend some time with her, then go to the housewarming together.” 

Amita likes this idea a lot, so they pack accordingly for a two-day trip and fuel up one of the cars in the garage. The others tell them to stay safe and call them in the evenings, and okay, maybe they are girlfriends, especially considering they all sleep with each other and stay under the same roof and, like, stole a priceless necklace together. Whatever. Amita hates proving her sister right.

All in all, it’s a pleasant four-hour drive. They’re the only ones in the team who have one little sister, and the time whiles away nicely as they both compare big sister experiences. It’s fun, especially when they pull up outside Veronica’s apartment and Veronica comes running down the stairs to greet them with hugs. 

They crash in Veronica’s apartment that night, sitting on the sofa watching bad TV and eating microwaved popcorn. It’s nice and cozy and makes Amita’s heart warm with the whole idea of family and kinship and love. She might even look forward to tomorrow’s housewarming a bit.

 

 

The nice fuzzy feeling about the housewarming almost instantly disappears once they actually get to the party. Amita wishes she could say she’s surprised but she really isn’t. 

“Your friend is so pretty,” Mounisha says, which is actually a really good start. She eyes Nine Ball semi-approvingly. “Amita, you need to get some fashion tips from her.” Ah, there it is. 

“I’m fine, Amma,” Amita says, sighing.

“And this girl looks more than fine. What did you say her name was again? And what does she do?”

Amita weighs the pros and cons of Leslie versus Nine Ball and goes with the latter. “Nine Ball. You can call her Nine. She… um, runs a snooker hall. And does some, um, freelance computer work.” 

“Oh,” says her mother, frowning. “Well, strange name and strange job. But it’s okay, her face makes up for it.” 

She resists the urge to give this a snippy retort, just goes over to Nine Ball’s side. “Pass the lassi or I’ll literally die.” 

“This caterer’s good,” says Nine Ball. “Can you ask your cousin to refer us? And what was your mother talking about?”

“She said you’re really pretty and I should get fashion tips from you,” says Amita, leaving out everything else. 

“You’re pretty too, babe,” Nine Ball replies, hip-checking her gently and fondly. “Don’t let anybody cramp your style.” 

 

 

Somehow or another Nazma corners her again, looking all cock-a-hoop. “Hey, when I said to bring another one of your girlfriends, I didn’t actually think you would deliver. How many do you have?!”

“They are not my girlfriends,” says Amita, very firmly. “They’re my… partners in crime.” Literally. But Nazma does _not_ need to know that. As it is, she just snorts. “Sure. You better not let Amma catch on, though. Debbie was one thing. A bunch of other strangers is another.” 

Amita was absolutely not planning on letting her mother figure any part of her living arrangements out, but she gets the spirit of the warning.

 

 

**_vi. birth_ **

The cousin in Washington DC has her kid three months later and once again, Amita prepares for the drive up, this time with Tammy in tow, because the woman has had two children and Amita thinks she would be a valuable presence. Especially when said cousin’s husband has to jet-set off to Sweden for work or some crap like that, so the poor thing is all alone. 

“Layla’s not alone, idiot, Amma and I are here,” Nazma says to her over the phone, sounding irritated. “You don’t have to drive up.” 

“What, and get nagged at for not caring about family the next time we meet up? Fat chance,” Amita replies. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Bring me earplugs,” sighs Nazma.

“What, is Layla’s kid making that much noise?”

“No, she’s a little sweetheart,” Nazma says. “Layla and Amma, on the other hand…”

 

 

The moment Tammy sets eyes on Layla’s kid she goes all gooey Suburban Mom mode. The kid’s being a little crabby that afternoon, as babies are wont to do, and Layla’s exhausted so she gratefully hands her off to Tammy when Tammy hesitantly offers to help soothe her. She is unsurprisingly good at it, and looks so delighted holding a baby. 

“I have two of my own,” she explains to Mounisha. “A boy and a girl. Seven and five.” 

Mounisha, who up until she says that has been regarding her with the usual narrowed squint of annoyed skepticism she’s greeted all of the team with aside from Debbie, softens to a fellow mother. “You are lucky,” she says directly to Tammy in English. “They are young, they are obedient. They look at you like you are their whole world! But no, when they grow up, they have their own minds, their own lives, and then it is a miracle if they even call home!” 

“Amma,” Amita groans, fairly certain that this is directed towards her. Tammy laughs softly, shooting her a fond look before turning back to her mother. “It’s not always easy when they’re young, too. Just yesterday Caleb put gum in Zoe’s hair.” 

“Oh, yes,” Mounisha says, warming to her topic. “I tell you a story of when Amita was ten, and she and Nazma went to climb a tree - “

“Anyway,” Nazma says loudly, getting up. “I am going to get a drink! Amma, Layla, Amita’s cute girlfriend, do you want a drink?” 

“I’ll come with you,” Amita adds quickly, and they both hurry out of the room. 

“Every time she pulls out the tree story, I swear - “

“At least you’re the victim in that one,” says Amita darkly. “Tammy will never let me live this down.” 

 

 

When they get back with a round of drinks for everyone, Mounisha has gone on with more embarrassing childhood stories mostly surrounding Amita. Tammy seems to be listening avidly, the fucking turncoat. 

“Amita! Why did you not tell me your friend knows Deborah as well?” Mounisha demands when Amita passes her a bottle of water. “You should have brought her down. I am sure she would’ve liked to see Layla’s new baby.” 

Debbie is currently pulling a small heist with Lou, but Amita thinks it wise not to mention this. Layla pipes up instead. “How about that other girl of yours, Amita? The one who came to the housewarming?” 

“That’s Amita’s other girlfriend,” says Nazma.

Amita elbows her, hard. Nazma elbows her back. “It’s true!” 

 

 

Amita takes the wheel for the drive home, with Tammy in the passenger seat. 

“So,” she says, an hour in. “That was nice.”

“I suppose,” Amita replies grudgingly. 

“I mean it, Amita. None of the visits with any of the others seem to have gone badly either.” She smiles over at her. “I know she can be hard on you, but you can tell she loves you and your sister.” 

“And yet she insists on telling the tree story to everyone she meets,” grumbles Amita. Tammy grins wide and Amita groans, knocking her forehead against the wheel. “Tell it to the other girls, and I will actually kill you.” 

“But it’s so good,” Tammy says, and she’s laughing now. “Did you really - “

“Stop!”

 

 

**_vii. family reunion_ **

To be fair, Tammy’s right. All the visits with the other girls as her dates have fared a lot better than Amita expected them to. She was honestly bracing to get the full extent of her mother’s wrath and part of her kind of still is. She thinks she might just be waiting for the other shoe to drop, because she’s not exactly sure her mother actually understands that all her dates have really been, well, _dates._ That she loves all of them and cares about all of them and lives with all of them, and that she’s happy and she wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ give them up, not for anyone. 

She thinks it might be bound to blow up in her face sooner or later. There’s no way she can hide this forever, right?

 

 

Her mother calls and informs her that she’s flying in to New York with her sister, brother-in-law and nephew. 

“What? Why?” Amita asks, surprised and a little worried. She can hear her mother sigh over the line. “One of your uncles is organising a reunion. He has been at sea for the past three years and just returned home and he misses his family.” 

Okay, she was not aware she even had family in New York, but… cool. Amita promises to be there - not like she would have much of a choice. 

“You want somebody to go with you?” Lou asks when she tells the others about it. “I haven’t gone on one of these family dates yet.” 

“They’re not field trips, Lou,” Amita says, giving her the side eye.

Lou shrugs gracefully. “Still sounds like it might be fun.”

And, like, why not, right? Everything’s been going so well. Her mother’s always warmed up to the others, eventually. 

So she says okay. 

 

 

On the day of the reunion, she dresses up nice and so does Lou and they head down to the address together. They join the crowd and mingle and Amita even has pretty decent conversations with relatives she hasn’t seen in ages. It’s nice. Her mother doesn’t bug her much and she thinks she might actually have fun, enjoy herself.

It all goes wrong very, very quickly.

Her mother corners her on the balcony of the apartment, stares her down. “Amita. I just heard something very disturbing.”

Something like dread curls up in Amita’s stomach - _shit, wait, no, what?_ “Um, what is it, Amma?”

“This woman you brought,” she says, sounding cold and furious. “As your _date,_  Nazma was saying -  _people_ were saying _._ Is she really your _date?_ As in, your girlfriend? Your lover?” 

Amita freezes, and her mouth goes dry, because _fuck,_ she didn’t expect this confrontration, not here, not now, and with her mother standing right in front of her, alone, and she can’t think, she can’t breathe - 

Her silence is all her mother needs. Her lips twist into a deeper frown. “All the other girls you ever brought. Who were they?” 

She doesn’t have the words, they just don’t come. She can’t lie. Doesn’t even want to. But there is no way to describe what she has with the others, who they are to her. Nazma has teased her about them being girlfriends but it’s just not _adequate._ The idea of ‘girlfriends’, the cultural understanding - their bond transcends that. They planned and executed and successfully pulled off the most audacious jewellery heist in modern history, together. They live together and love together and are bound by something greater than most people will ever even touch.

Still she doesn’t say anything, and her mother just stares and stares. “You are mad,” she eventually says, not sounding angry or even disappointed, just… disbelieving. “What would your father say? How can you do this?”

 _I love them,_ she thinks, wants to scream it. _You don’t understand. They are more than I can ever explain. I love them._

She stays stock-still, frozen to the spot, as her mother exits. She’s still standing there when Lou enters a minute or two later, looking concerned and upset. “Your mom said we should leave,” she says softly. “Did something happen?”

Amita won’t cry, she _won’t,_ not here. “We should leave,” she repeats, and walks out, head high, not meeting anyone’s eyes, just strides out of the house and back home, back where she really belongs. 

 

 

She tells them, later, when they’re safely curled up in the living room of the warehouse and everyone’s surrounding her. It’s halted and she comes this close to crying once or twice, but she makes it through, voice shaky. Debbie sighs, pressing her palm against her forehead. “Shit, Amita,” she says. “I know your mom didn’t really get it, but - shit.” 

“I thought I would be okay with it,” Amita says, because she really did. “I’ve been angry at her for years anyway, for so many things, and I thought it would all just come to a head one day and I would have the strength to just walk out and never look back. But I can’t. It still hurts.” 

Daphne gently rubs her back, slow and steady, and Nine Ball rests a hand on her arm. “It’s okay. It’s okay to feel like that.” 

They all gather closer, hug her tight, and Amita closes her eyes and tries to think - tries to think of anywhere else she would feel more at home, of people she would feel more at home with, and comes up naught. 

She may have lost something today, but she will always have this. 

Maybe it’s enough.

Maybe if she says that over and over, she'll believe it.

 

 

**_viii. trespass_ **

Daphne was technically the first to trespass into the warehouse, although she didn’t really, because Debbie and Lou invited her.

Amita’s mother is the actual first to do it. A week after the reunion she storms in with a frantic Nazma by her side trying to stop her, and everyone looks up from where they’re all wrapped up on the couch watching TV. Considering the context and everything that’s happened (and also the fact that Debbie and Daphne are getting handsy and they storm in when Amita's literally making out slow and easy with Nine Ball), it’s pretty undeniable that they’re all involved with each other to some extent. 

Everyone goes still, including Mounisha and Nazma. They just take in the scene, and Amita feels her heart sink and her head swim. She’s done for. She knows it.

Debbie’s the first one to speak, to get up and go over to them. “Hey, Auntie. Hey, Naz.”

“Hey, Deb,” Nazma says quietly, looking sympathetic and deeply apologetic. 

“Deborah,” Mounisha says, tone inscrutable. “Tell me the truth now. What is going on between you and Amita? Between all of you?”

Debbie glances back at Amita, and for a long, long moment, nobody says a word.

But _shit,_ she loves them. They’re a team, they’re _the_ team. Ocean’s Eight. They got away with robbing Cartier of a priceless necklace and if they could do that, Amita can do this. She finds her voice, somehow. “I love them,” she says, and it’s the truest thing she thinks she’s ever said. “I don’t have a real way of saying it, Amma, but I _love_ them. And they love me. And this is real, and I am happy. I have - I have never been happier. Never.” She’s getting up now, going over to where Debbie is standing, and it feels like walking through molasses. “You don’t have to understand. I get it if you don’t. But please - just let me have this. Please.” 

Has she ever been this honest with her mother? This real? Amita can’t remember. This is her laying all her cards on the table and for once she has no idea how her mother is going to react. They’ve been running on autopilot for years, maybe, and she’s scared, because she thought she could stand losing her family, but she can’t. Neither one. 

It feels like an eternity later that her mother finally exhales and glances past her at the girls waiting on the couch, watching, at Debbie, who’s moved back to give them space. “You are happy?”

Amita swallows, rolls the truth over her tongue. “I am. So much.” 

Her mother nods, just once, then walks over to stare down the other girls. Nazma takes her arm in a gesture of comfort, and Amita watches. Watches as she looks over all of them. “I must know all of you,” she says, stilted but genuine. “If my daughter… cares this much for all of you.”

“We’ve met,” Lou says quietly. 

“But not long enough,” Mounisha replies. “Deborah, I know your name. The rest… I am not so sure. Mine is Mounisha Sanyal. And all of yours?” 

Slowly, the girls offer up their names again, their hands for the shaking. Amita exhales a sigh of relief and leans into her sister, lets the scene play out in front of her.

It’s not everything, not yet, and maybe it’ll never really be. But watching her mother start to try, watching her families start to blend - it’s a start. It’s a beginning. And maybe, just maybe,  _this_ is enough, and everything else, they can figure out in time.


End file.
